Masquerade
by cccf
Summary: A translation work. It was a ridiculous masquerade in the year 1956, but was it really happened? When every jokes we said was fullfilled, what will you do my dear comrade? Where will the fate lead us to?


This is a translation work, my friend_ Bluefarewell_ wrote the original one. I want to say a lot when finished reading my friend's work but just cannot speak out a single word. So I decided to translate it into English for her, or for myself. I hope you could enjoy it, although the fic made me feel very sad :)

This is my first translation, I'd be glad if you point out my mistakes (I think there would be a lot), but please be gentle:))))))

And my thanks to the superb Bluefarwell for you wrote a wonderful fic (again)，and revised my work and gave me the authority. And my love for all the friend in the group, whether you could see this or not XDDDDDD

And I love Shostakovich))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))), and Melodiya XD

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><p>The notes of the original author:<p>

-It's really not a bad ending

-Don't ask what the hell did the author exactly want to say because she was just suddenly went mad

-The direct motivation for the fic were kilala's doujin been wide spreaded without her authority and my resentment for cannot find a portable CD player

-I can't say I love Shostakovich but his cello concerto brought me down completely.

-In fact the stupid author didn't know anything about the music at all.

-1956, the begging of the Split; 27th the December, the found of the new relationship

-And that's all

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><p>The sudden sound of cello sounded right next to his ear.<p>

The sleepy man was a little bit angry, he turned back frustratedly but hit himself on a faded wooden shelf. The dust seemed accumulating for a century just floated down and choked him badly. Next door lived a college student who made the endless practice which began from afternoon as an unwritten rule. Unfortunately, his skills was not superb, he frowned, the melody flowed out from the strings was a little bit weird, oh - but this was _his_ musician, his cellist, Ivan Braginsky reminded himself bitterly. Once upon the time this melody had formed a treacherous figure in his mind, like the exile, like a sad lonely sigh.

But now the figure had already faded away. It was hardly a surprise. The endless time that mortals could never enjoyed had already made them forgetful and turned their hearts hard as iron. He didn't even need a reason for his ridiculous behavior - coming here without a thought, crouching in the low attic, rummaging through dusty old things. Most of the space was occupied by the well-structured body, a cracked mirror on the wall reflected his dirty face. The Slav was annoyed but yet amused. He muttered to himself, moving down the odds and ends and found something familiar unexpectedly in the old yellow papers - a long play record settled in the dust.

Memories about them were blurred and scores went mouldy, only leaving wreckages that collapsed under the lightest touch. Perhaps he should look for a destination to keep all the outdated material, anywhere could be fine.

Fortunately the title has still survived. With the fingers tapped on the words，he spelt out their names one by one: Мусоргский – Прокофьев – Чайковский - Шостако́вич... Шостако́вич. No body knows what was in _his_ mind when that man composed the Jazz Suite, something with a thick smell of the capitalist decadence, made such a noise in the red age.

The gramophone had been broken long time ago, dark golden horn hanged on the ground. He could imagine the needle resting on the rotating record, slightly swinging together with the melody. The whole room filled with music - but not in this small attic. The melody should be much more beautiful than his neighbor played. As if the kid could heard his mind, the sound from the other side of the wall now finally quieted down.

But old images deeply rooted in his heart had already been wakened. They should not be there, the strange yet familiar figures, no happened to be such incredibly sharp and clear. He stood up, old wood floors crunched under his boots. The sun shined through the window, myriad golden dust floated in the air. As if possessed, he heard his own words outflow clearly from his lips.

Let's dance. Right now.

There was no one reached out his hand for him. The Slav shrugged, mischievously took a spin around. 1,2,3, he beat time in his mind and began to dance with heavy steps, 1,2,3, his magnified shadow painted a dark block on the bright wall.

Unfortunately the wooden shelves once again got him into trouble - this time hit right on the head, the Slav stroked his forehead and cursed in pain.

What are you doing? The Slav asked himself. He hadn't danced for so long. The steps together with many abandoned memories had burst out as if out of his control. Violet eyes looked confused, his mind flow out of the window, back to the secret place that all the stories had been concealed.

Let's dance, in 1956.

In the year 1956, he was not very young but neither to be old. His heart still not been eroded by the inexorable time. Back then the fitted military uniform was well-ironed, polished brass buttons was shinning brightly, melody echoed when boots stepped on the floor.

The Leaders had taken the royal halls to hold the meeting. So now he was surrounded by the gilt decoration and carved mirrors, dazzled by the crystal lamps and golden candles. God and angles staring him from the splendid Baroque dome. This was him, but not the real him. In the ballroom once had been the queen's favorite, the young man feels like he was in the middle of nowhere, standing all alone between lights and shadows.

Like been arranged, suddenly the room filled with voices. Guests flooded in through the heavy gate, Waltz floated among the crowds with a nameless anxiety flowed under the cherry melodies. Шостакович, just as the author's name jumped into his head, the young man had been pushed boldly into the dancing floor. He struggled to keep his balance, suddenly couldn't remember the reason why he was there. Memories conflict with lively scene, but everything had just happened right in front of him. Don't take it too serious Vanya, he told himself, it doesn't matter even this is not the reality. His life never lacks of crazy adventures and this one may be the most beautiful fault among all the impossibilities.

Right here, right now, right in 1956, holding a bourgeois carnival in the most faithful age.

It could only be a ridiculous masquerade, held in a wrong time and a wrong place.

He stood blankly, pupils slightly contracted for being puzzled, his friends were dancing around him. The Hungary girl cheerfully hold the hand of the East Germany guy, the latter complained but didn't hide his joy. The figure on the opposite of the Polish was his elder sister, who was always good-tempered and gentle. As a girl had shiny grey hair and warm blue eyes, she was indeed a beautiful partner. The cold Belarus beauty held out her hand and the young Lithuanian took it reverently as took the most precious treasure. They were still fairies even without their aristocratic dresses once they were proud for - his sisters had taken them off of long time ago. But maybe it's the time to get some changes, Ivan thought, the cold military uniforms could never been good friends to ladies.

Then he saw himself stood in the lengthened shadows of the dancers. Lights flowed, people talked, laughed, spun in the music. It mattered nothing to be a stranger here. Push aside the faceless crowd, the young Soviet thought he need a partner. Now the opportunity was great and everything went smooth, he saw himself hold the hand of the oriental in fifty years ago. His friend was not in the Chinese tunic suit then, the collar of his neatly white shirt was tightly buttoned. All of these seemed quite bizarre when matched with his remarkable Russian uniform. His dark eyes were wide open, quiet and confused.

It might be the only shared feeling between them. The uncertainty in the brown eyes even covered the persistent containing. The oriental laid his hand on his shoulder with a little shy, his fingers slightly trembled of nervous, but he didn't retreat. The Soviet smiled a little, he understood very well. You can't demand too much from your Chinese comrades, who had already took solemnity or even restraining as a life style. Anything about passion, enthusiasm or crazy would be extraordinary, even right here.

Even be like lovers.

Then he heard Yao asked softly why they were here right now, he didn't reply. The question with no answer would always be ignored. No, so he said, you don't need to ask for a reason. There were always something out of orbit and it was not bad. Then they danced quietly, the oriental had learned a new word, Маскара, maybe we could call this with that word. To cover a face with a mask, to conceal the reality with the falsehood, may you could understand it my friend.

"But no one has a mask to cover their face here." The question was in the amusing brown eyes.

"Then let's begin with small lies." He answered - if you want, you could tell all the lies, all the enantiosis, all the censures, but only tonight. Just like children played "Tell me the opposite".

The oriental smiled and shook his head, but when he looked into the violet eyes he found his partner was serious. The Chinese was slightly shocked, but didn't matter if he just don't want to disappoint his partner or just want to enjoy a little abreacting, half-genuine and half-sham they started to tell lies. From the simplest "it is rainy today", little by little to the unbridled taunts. They were just like a couple of the most unforgivable blasphemers, cursing the most magnificent goal purchased by their most beloved leaders.

There will be one day our alliance would split, isn't it? The answer was a burst of unbridled laughter. He heard himself went on, you cannot deny that everything was so lively, just as realities. The dream would fallen and the lovers turn to rivals, nobility kneels to corruption and light devoured by darkness, the glory would be take down by conspiracy. If our fate has already been judged, tell me then, what would you do when the collapse and oblivion finally befall?

The oriental stopped laughing and raised his head from his uniform, his body temperature still remained on his cheek. I don't want to tell lies about this, he said, with every word clearly and steadily. If the time had arrived, I won't stop missing you, with all my hypocrisy and all the indelible memories about you.

He looked at him without a word. The carnival went on. Between the golden lights the darkness was creeping like a white flash spilt the thunderstorm. Shadows of dancing crowds reached faraway like demons, under the bright melodies something was growling. The warning for unpredictable changing flooded from everywhere threatened to drown him.

_There is only one thing would be true_, the oriental said.

He wanted to continue but suddenly everything became quiet. The disc stopped rotating and the noisy crowd disappeared together with the last note, everything sank into darkness.

After then there was no more dancing for them. One day he found his gramophone didn't work anymore but he didn't feel he care to fix it. The flowery horn drooped and the player was foisted into some place out of sight. It might be a good ending anyway.

The nightly hairs slightly swung when his partner finally leaving. Leave him stood there all alone, closing his eyes.

Then the chatting died out, no more letters or meetings, everything they experienced together turned into dim illusions. In a split second the bygones bewildered him, _there would only one thing to be true_, Wang Yao told him. But before he tried to understand, they had already been separated.

Was that only a masquerade, or a reflection of the irresistible destiny?

Yet he had no answer. When the illusions revealed again the world has already changed a lot, and all the lies have finally realized, as they were the truth from the beginning. People still can't confirm if such a ludicrous performance had even happened, happened in the universe in 1956. _Maybe I should ask him myself_. With that thought, the young man walked to the residence of his Chinese guest.

The snow stopped. He felt uncomfortable for besieged by the silence. It seemed from the first note of the music in the ball, the snow flakes never stopped falling until 27th the Dec, 1991.

And the oriental stood right there, waiting for him. This time he was the one who reached out his hand and made a request. So for a short time the Slav just didn't know what to do. Oddly, the question he needed to ask now suddenly was forgotten. With the hands holding together, he pulled the taller one to the middle of the snowfield. And his smile didn't even change, still be gentle and quite.

Then, let's dance. One more time. He said.

_In this chaotic fallen age._

No formal attire, no music, no masquerade. Маскара— but maybe we should still call it with this.

So would there be more lies? He smiled. But the reality was every lies became a very truth.

Little word game hum? But I have said there was only one thing would be true.

All these were disguises just like those illusions.I know what you want to ask, said the oriental, but I cannot give you the answer. Only lies, all more similar lies. Listen to me, I said you would lose and cannot recover, the iron curtain broke down and the empire collapsed just like dusts, I said you kneeled to the misery which seem to be overwhelming and eternal; I said people would mock the battle earth, splash all the honor and hate those who they once beloved; I said they would walk across their own ceremonies with bloody new weapons in hands, dig out all the graves and never know what they have done. I said I cannot keep memorizing you because there would be no one who understood the sigh anymore, the sigh echoed after the curtains fell and theater empty, when all the lights extinguished and finally the darkness had arrived.

And what would be the time for empty? He found himself asked.

_I cannot answer you with the truth_, Wang Yao said. _Right here, right now._

And there was a long silence. Too many images flooded into his mind that couldn't be confirmed to be reality. There were many footprints on the snowfield, but he didn't feel cold. And when his eyes laid on his guest, suddenly he awared that he was only in a very light coat. So he bent down, holding hands turned to an embrace, then those obscure memories about him had been recalled slowly and clearly. There was no need to find the only truth any more because he finally got his answer in this long-waited met. It was just like he had heard the raven haired one spoke loudly: it is still the VERY TRUTH, but don't say it out, never need to say it out.

They still hugged in the middle of the snow. Maybe the cold could be resist just like that, although they don't quite certain about it themselves.

Then an unfamiliar melody start to flow, the cello was played again. He closed his eyes and tried to pick out something he knew in the poor performance, but nothing has been found.

And he understood. This would be an all new chapter.


End file.
